A Mirror Darkly
by Foulds
Summary: Albert Wesker clawed his way out of his own unmarked grave at Arklay and swore revenge. Now he works for the mysterious HCF. The story of a dead man in a world of conspiracies. Chapter 3; As Wesker watches over Birkin, Hunk approaches Spencer...
1. A New Beginning

Disclaimer; I do not own Resident Evil

July 28th 1998, Raccoon City

"Addison! Get out of my office! What the hell are you waiting for! You incompetent pup! Come back when you've got answers!"

The young researcher began fiddling with his glasses and pretending to look for something as the barrage of abuse continued. The scientist stared at the floor, making sure he was showing a suitable amount of shame for something he had been absolutely nothing to do with.

He flicked his eyes around the room, from the decorative polished marble pillars to the huge paintings and animal heads, desperate to avoid eye contact with his boss. It was a small office, and the walls seemed to be overcrowded by symbols of wealth. At the end of the room was an expansive desk with a beautiful chair of elegantly worked wood and soft leather.

Spencer was still ranting. The founder of Umbrella was an old man now. His skin was shrivelled and his teeth were stained a hideous yellow by a lifetime of cigars. His seemingly unlimited amounts of money had contributed to several operations to stave off the inevitable for a few more years. His hair was wispy and entirely white. He wore an old tweed jacket with a white shirt and tie. Though he was withered and feeble and his voice was a hoarse croaking sound, he was still feared, mainly as his opponents seemed to go missing and then not return. This was the sole reason that the young Dr Addison was still here. He had to subtly suggest that he was not entirely to blame for the events of the last few days. As Spencer came to a conclusion and began to cough into a handkerchief, Dr Addison, flicked back the page of the report in front of him that he had started on and timidly began to speak,

"Albert Wesker has not responded to any of our attempts to communicate him. Mr Irons has told us that the STARS report claimed that he was killed when Project T-002 escaped from isolation and attacked him. Given that the mansion was destroyed shortly thereafter, we must assume he has died"

Spencer grunted and looked disgustedly out of the window behind him,

"A shame. Wesker was a good man. Did what he was told. Has the Tyrant definitely been removed?"

"Yes Lord Spencer. STARS destroyed it and the explosion removed the evidence. Our cleanup crews have confirmed this to be the case. What should we do about the survivors?"

"If Wesker is gone then we have no combat data from the lab. The loss of the samples is regrettable but we have made far better progress in our other research centres. We need that combat data, and these survivors appear to have it. Contact Irons and get him to have STARS complete a full report of everything they did. If they do not provide suitable information then we will capture them, but until that point…"

"Sir, they know about Umbrella's involvement"

"Silence! Nobody will believe their story, and Irons will hamper the investigation. This outcome was unfortunate but the danger has abated now. Moving to take out STARS would create too much suspicion. Irons is a good man. Now, who is to blame for all this, Addison?"

Addison began to sweat. All signs pointed to an accident. A few of the crews at a nearby training facility had suggested a humanoid figurewith the ability to control leeches, but these reports had been hysterical and shortly before the unit was lost,

"Saboteurs in the organisation, sir. The ring leader was almost certainly a researcher named Martin Crackhorn"

"Bah. God knows why I didn't have him killed years ago. Bloody foreigner, was he?"

"Umm… yes, sir, very foreign"

"I should have known"

"Sir, it appears that the initial outbreak at the mansion happened on the 11th of May, as was recorded in a document STARS found. Why wasn't anything done before now?"

Spencer scowled at Addison. The mansion had been a nuisance. Birkin had been in Raccoon City already, along with the G-virus research. When he had heard about the outbreak, it has seemed a very fortunate coincidence. The mansion had outlived its usefulness, though Spencer would miss its architecture. The outbreak would remove all witnesses and provide a perfectly isolated locale for obtaining combat data. Even better, the forest would allow the T-virus to infect huge numbers of new plants and animals. It would produce years of experimentation within a few months for free. True, Spencer hadn't counted on a few backpackers and hikers being horribly murdered, but Irons would tie up any loose ends. Spencer turned to the researcher, who was now trembling,

"That is none of your concern. Come back when you have the combat data. Now get out. There is much work to be done"

Addison turned, pulled open the door and raced out, desperate to get back to his post before Spencer changed his mind. Spencer glared at the door,

"Bloody presumptuous pup…"

He pressed a small button on his desk and began to speak,

"Inform the research department that they may do as they wish with Dr Addison, as long as it's painful"

* * *

__

30th July 1998, Mexico

Albert Wesker stood in the middle of a grey warehouse that was filled with pitch-black alcoves and good spots to hide. But Wesker stood in the very centre of the empty concrete expanse in the centre of the area, dressed all in black, an emotionless look on his face as always. Despite his newly gained abilities, Wesker felt the most afraid he had in years. Things had turned out rather badly for him, and now he had to try and retain his usefulness to HCF. This company, if that was what it was, was a complete mystery to him. He didn't know who ran it. He didn't know what it really was. He didn't even know, he noticed as he smiled to himself, what the acronym stood for. He also hadn't truly met anyone from the organisation yet. It had always been like this. Suddenly a male voice called out and echoed around the hall, its source impossible to determine, possessing no clear accent, but a mixture of annoyance and amusement,

"I'm surprised you bothered to show up"

"There has been a slight…"

"We know exactly what happened. You are an overconfident fool"

"I still have the combat data from the other BOWs"

"We have no interest in your little creatures"

"I can provide another Tyrant. I am aware of all of Umbrella's facilities, and can easily break into any of them and obtain another Tyrant and its combat data"

"Perhaps you misunderstand, my poor little deluded fool. Why would we want a Tyrant now? Why would we want combat data from an organism that has been defeated by a small group of police officers using standard military equipment during their second encounter with it? HCF had an interest in the Tyrant as the 'ultimate bio weapon'. It would seem that you rather overestimated it, wouldn't you say?"

"STARS are an exceptionally talented group of people…"

"Then why, pray tell, do we have any need of you? You yourself concede that there are equally exceptional people to yourself. Your connection to Umbrella has been severed through your own folly. You are now useless to us"

"I still know a great deal about Umbrella. And I know" said Wesker, slowing down his voice to emphasise every word, "that you would be interested in what a colleague of mine is still producing"

There was silence for a moment as if the voice was sulking that Wesker knew something that he didn't. He eventually quietly replied,

"Go on"

"The G-virus can create exponential mutation in the subject. It is truly the ultimate bio weapon"

"Why were we not informed of its existence before?"

"Just to make sure that you have need of me in case events got out of hand. So, am I to be accepted into HCF or not?"

"Don't get presumptuous. You have failed us once. Deliver us the G-virus at all costs, and then we will see"

"Fine"

"There is one other thing"

"Yes?"

"You will be working alongside another agent that we have hired. Just to make sure that things go to plan, you understand"

"And who might this agent be?"

"That doesn't matter. You will refer to her as Ada Wong. She is not a part of HCF, but she is… an exceptional individual. She has done work for us before"

"I do not need help"

"We think you do, and we are in control"

"Fine, she may do as she pleases"

Wesker, partially back in control, strolled out of the warehouse. He would recover the G-virus. All he needed to do was pick the right time.

* * *

__

17th October 1855, London

A gentleman in an immaculate black suit and a front laced vest in white silk with a cravat with a diamond stud pin appeared from a carriage. He strolled quickly down a wide and clean street, smiling happily as he greeted anyone he passed. He had short blonde hair, which was hidden by a top hat, and a friendly complexion. The man must have been about twenty-five years old. He turned off the street and marched down a winding stone path towards an expansive house of white stone. He rapped on the door with his chamois glove covered hand and a far older man answered. The younger gentlemen exclaimed happily,

"Good morning James! Is Miss Ashford at home?"

"Of course sir. I will inform her of your arrival. Please feel free to go into the lounge while I find her. She will receive you shortly"

"Much appreciated!"

The young man then strolled through into the huge and well-lit lounge - he was a regular visitor and knew the location of every room - and settled down in a large chair after checking his reflection in a mirror. Satisfied that he was suitably smart, he sat down again

A few minutes later, a young women, also about twenty-five years old, entered the room and stood at the far side of a finely worked mahogany table. This was Veronica Ashford, and she was, as the young man was quite well aware, stunningly beautiful. She had long blonde hair that she allowed to flow freely. She was wearing a long purple dress that covered her whole body. A silver choker with a red gem clung to her neck. Her face was sometimes slightly harsh, but she had beautiful blue eyes and a glorious smile. Her manner was quite upfront, and she was, rather unusually, unmarried. The man rose swiftly and, stumbling around the table, took her out held hand and kissed it once, as was completely innocent and to be expected. Reluctantly returning to his former place opposite Veronica, he began,

"Miss Ashford, I must say that you look quite beautiful today"

"You are flattering me, Michael, and please call me Veronica"

"Very well, then you are quite beautiful Miss Veronica"

Both parties laughed gently before Veronica asked,

"To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?"

"Ah yes, I have the papers you asked me to obtain for you"

Veronica's eyes lit up instantly as she tried to see the pile of paper in his hands, and she gave him a slightly annoyed glance when he continued, flicking through the papers,

"Although, I must say, I am at a loss as to why you would want these. Some of the information is just not fit to be read by a proper woman. Diseases and death… These are the topics of doctors and the ill. We are kept quite apart from such things, and you do not need to trouble yourself with these matters"

"I asked for them purely on behalf of my brother. I take an interest only as I am his sister and it is only right that he has someone to discuss it with"

"Ah, young Master Stanley. So we have a young scientist in our midst, do we? How old is he now? And how is he getting by?"

"Stanley is fifteen years old now. He is the same as ever. He is always working. He has been that way ever since mother and father passed away"

"Even so… Very well. This is the latest report from Dr Snow. He hypothesises that typhoid is being carried via polluted water supplies. Quite a strange theory I think"

"I believe that he is right"

"How on earth would one be able to say that?"

"Just an opinion Michael. A water supply is surely the most efficient method of spreading anything. Do not forget that we all need water, the rich and poor alike"

She laughed quietly as she said this, at the same timepouring both of them a glass of water from a glittering crystal decanter. He thanked her as hepicked up the beautiful glassand took a to drink, hereplied,

"That is of course if God wanted typhoid to spread.Our Lordwould not make such a illness. He strikes down only the wicked, and those for whom it is the time to be called"

"I bow to your superior knowledge in the subject"

"I do think I should be on my way"

"Of course, it was good to see you Michael"

Veronica stood up and led him to the door, opening it and closing it behind him. As soon as the door snapped shut, another voice called out from the hall,

"Was that really necessary?"

As a scruffy looking brown haired youth emerged from behind a doorway, Veronica laughed to herself,

"Oh, he's just a man. They are easy to manipulate. We have the report"

"Well I hope you feel clever"

"You're just jealous that you haven't discovered how to breed a more virulent strain of the diphtheria toxin yet"

"Will you stay serious?" Stanley exclaimed, just after sticking his tongue out, "If Snow knows that the most effective medium is the water supply then those fools are learning faster than we thought. Next they'll be able to counter diseases. If they start to hold influence with the scientific community then we can forget about our research"

"Oh calm down Stanley. Have you heard the news from the east?"

"What?"

"Plague, Stanley. The symptoms seem clear and it's spreading like fire through China and India. The disease that wiped out one third of England's population has resurfaced and it's more potent than ever before"

"You want a sample? Here? It's too dangerous!"

"I'm not that reckless. I simply mean that once more disease has proven more dangerous than the most powerful empire. That is why we must continue. If we can create a virus that can be controlled and that only Great Britain possesses and is able to cure then our influence would extend across the world. They'll thank us for this"

"Our influence? Is that Victoria's or your own?"

Veronica chuckled as the two young people returned to the laboratory…


	2. Thoughts of the Immortals

__

10th September, 1998, Paris

The meeting room was unquestionably exquisite. The polished mahogany table stretched down the long chamber, so perfectly fitting that one would think that this intricate piece of woodwork might actually have been produced solely for its present location and purpose. Small exotic trees, each carefully trimmed into an identical yet elaborate shape, sat at the base of each of the spotless windows. The immaculate beige carpet had presumably not been trodden often.

In great contrast to the flawless polished surroundings were the actual occupants of the room. Men of various ages and nationalities sat around in dark suits, fanning themselves with the report in front of them. Most had a young aide in attendance, standing silently behind them. None of the board members seemed to have words for each other, but all had a common tendency to glance at the head of the table with a look of faint contempt and annoyance.

Sitting comfortably back in what would best be described as a throne, complete with velvet cushions and showy carvings, the young man revelled in the affluent scene, like a King in his court. He wore a pressed blue suit, and one could be sure that each shining silver hair on his head had been carefully arranged by a stylist. He was also, quite simply, a genius. Morpheus Duvall, in a room which mirrored his own majesty, was enjoying his day.

The other men were the board members of Umbrella's French Division, but this wasn't an official meeting. Nonetheless, it had been called at exceedingly short notice. Morpheus, who appeared little over twenty, though it was said that he had had surgery, was officially the chairman, as he had called the meeting. It was suspected that he used to call pointless meetings just because he enjoyed chairing them. That was before August, when he had been fired on the orders of Spencer. Another victim to placate the old man, and one of the first scapegoats for the leak at Arklay.

Nonetheless, the silver haired researcher and businessman was rich, well connected and powerful, and a business invitation from him was not to be refused. As the room stayed in silence, despite the fact that everyone was in attendance, a middle aged American rose to his feet and exclaimed in a Texan drawl,

"Morpheus, will you call this damn meeting to order so we can deal with whatever the hell you dragged us here for?"

Morpheus Duvall, formerly one of the youngest ever board members of Umbrella, as well as a fine researcher, took a moment to return a patronising dour gaze. He muttered to himself in French, before replying with his clear voice,

"Your language is as civilised as your nation's culture, Mr Southard, so consider yourself fortunate that I will lower myself to it. I simply thought I would let you appreciate your surroundings. I have taken great care to ensure that everything is suitably beautiful"

"I hope you have a better reason for calling us here than to smell the posies!"

"These are examples of Bauhinia Galpinii. They are extinct in many parts of the world. You should be honoured to be able to witness them, and in their glorious bloom no less"

"Mr Duvall, this is very impressive" added a man in an English accent, "but many of us have other business to attend to"

"Of course. I will not take up much of your time, gentlemen. I have called you here to make a proposal. A man in my position hears many things. He has many friends. Many opportunities present themselves to him. Sometimes he must balance up certain options. Sometimes we must all take risks for the greater good. I trust you have all read the report I sent to you about the Raccoon incident"

The gentlemen, several of whom went quite pale, silently nodded in agreement, but Mr Southard spoke up,

"You shouldn't be talking about these things"

"I obtained that from a contact in Raccoon itself. Spencer does not want anybody outside of Raccoon to know anything"

"This is dangerous!" interrupted the Texan, standing up and leaving rapidly, "You're messing with fire, boy! I don't want any part in this!"

"My loud friend, at this moment a copy of the information has been planted inside your files. If Spencer is informed of the leak, you will all be implicated equally. I alone do not have a copy in my possession. All for one, and one for all, gentlemen. Now sit down Mr Southard"

The Texan looked ready to shout something, but was ushered to sit by his colleagues, many of whom were sweating now. Morpheus continued,

"I apologise for being so rude, but I knew it would take something special to keep you here and interested. I have a plan that cannot fail. The French division of Umbrella must break off from the Americans at once. Spencer is losing control. One of his key scientists, William Birkin, is acting rather unpredictably, or so I am reliably informed. The Raccoon facility is in trouble. The newspapers report cannibalistic sects and hideous monsters, and have been doing so since June. I think we know what they are really. We must leave now, before we are dragged down with Spencer"

There was a terrible silence as the men looked at each other. At length, Mr Southard stood up again,

"We ain't afraid of you, Morpheus, and we won't support this madness. We're gonna tell all this to Lord Spencer, and you're gonna wish you just stayed quiet"

"Need I remind you that we deserve to rule over Spencer. Our branch created the Nemesis parasite in 1987. Spencer stole it from us and, like everything else, injected it straight into that hideous woman they experiment on. We have always been ahead of them. It is time that this became official"

"I'm leaving"

"A noble sentiment, and an unfortunate one" said Morpheus calmly, as he clapped his hands twice. A second later, the large oak doors flew open and armed men poured in, each dressed in full combat gear and with his face covered with a black mask. They surrounded the table, and raised what appeared to be hunting guns. Mr Southard, shaking violently, stuttered,

"Morpheus, let's not do anything stupid here. We'll support your proposal, and you send out these guys"

"I'm afraid not, Mr Southard. Truth is beauty, and you do not truly support me. Every single one of you thought that he was invincible. How sad. However, I will be merciful today"

The men looked up, some crying, some praying, as Morpheus paused and then continued, getting up and strolling towards the door,

"I am a reasonable man"

"Ok Morpheus. Now please dismiss the guards and we can talk about this…"

"I think you may have misunderstood. I apologise. My English is sometimes less than perfectly elegant. To give you back your dreary little lives would be cruel. These are Remington 7400 rifles. They are such beautiful weapons. Rest assured that they are fully automatic, despite their quaint appearance. As a final act of kindness, I will grant you the ultimate state of perfection; a beautiful death. Goodbye gentlemen"

Morpheus, now through the doors, closed them gently behind him; they were oak, after all. He heard the screams of dying men over the rifles, all of which had been silenced for discretion. Morpheus sighed. He had spent a lot of money to get those guns, and those ingrates weren't even honoured. Not many people got such a noble death; shot by professional assassins with a Remington 7400. The entire Spartan civilisation had been based around the pursuit of the beautiful death. Some people, he thought, will never be satisfied. He reached into his suit and pulled out a sleek mobile phone, which he had updated to only yesterday,

"Call my associates and tell them that we are in control. Get our men into all the French research facilities at once, and continue sending regular reports to Spencer. He must not know that anything is amiss. Oh, and after the bodies have been removed, get somebody to clean the carpet. And send a thank you note to my gardener"

* * *

__

12th September, 1998, Mexico

The young man breathed heavily, sitting on a plastic stool that happened to be nearby. The rush of the kill was over. He felt his muscles burn from his exertions. Though he made it look easy, moving faster than most men could imagine was tiring. Swordplay required great focus. Even keeping one's senses perfectly attuned entailed a certain amount of effort. Had the lab not been physically torn apart, and had there not been decapitated corpses strewn across the wooden worktops, the scene would have been quite normal.

The youth, surely not older than twenty-five by his appearance, perched on his chair. He watched a stream of blood trickle down the cracks between the sterile white plastic tiles that made up the floor. The noise as it gurgled and dripped down a drainage hole was soothing.

His blonde hair was combed into short yellow spikes. His face was young and innocent, and he took great pains to ensure he never got blood on himself, which was quite a feat for a swordsman. He wore tightly fitting dark attire, his chest covered by matching body armour, but the remainder protected solely by thin material, to keep his garments light. His clothes were purely functional, and their purpose was to avoid hindering him.

Two long sheathes hung down each leg, each containing a long military sabre with certain special modifications. Alongside these were twin holsters, each containing a gleaming silver revolver. The youth detested guns. They were clumsy and random. More to the point they were the weapons of the unskilled. Any idiot could pull a trigger. Whether the random spray of an assault rifle met its mark or not was wholly chance. Only a skilled warrior could wield a sword, and the better man would always emerge triumphant. Only a master could wipe out a whole laboratory's security with two pieces of sharpened metal.

He looked around the upturned laboratory. This had been an unproductive incursion. There was no virus research here. He had followed a false lead. On the plus side, security had been tough, and yet no real obstruction. His mind dwelt on that little man, Albert Wesker. He had been meeting Wesker and considering letting him into the organisation, which Wesker knew only as HCF, for some time.

The youth corrected himself. He had hated Albert Wesker, and would have rather killed him, but his siblings had a strange fixation with the man, and had insisted that Wesker should be contacted. He was, as nobody else seemed to see, a mere police officer and spy, made cocky by having a few nifty abilities that weren't even his own. And yet there was something about him…

"Deinos"

The blonde haired man, who was quite certain that his hair was nicer than Wesker's own hideous peroxide mass, knew the voice that echoed in his mind instantly. He instinctively reached for and stroked his pale neck, running his finger around the gaping circular wound on his otherwise unblemished skin. It looked like a deep animal bite, but wasn't bleeding. The young man, Deinos, closed his eyes and replied,

"Good morning Anna"

"Have you found anything?"

"There's nothing here"

"Our Mother wants you to return at once"

"Of course"

Deinos opened his eyes and became aware of the empty room again.

* * *

__

16th September, 1998, Raccoon City

Wesker stood motionless by the window, staring down from his motel room to the busy street below. Hundreds of lives, and not one of them mattered. Leaves in autumn, he thought to himself. They live and breathe, and spend their whole existence trying to make their time here pleasant, then they die, and, foolish sentiment aside, nobody will ever miss them.

Wesker had always presumed that immortality brought with it contempt for lower life forms. And yet even the highest Emperor of Rome needed amusement. After all, what was the point of power, if there was nobody to tremble before you with fear and awe?

He found himself toying with the mortals who he was forced to do business with. Sometimes they lived. Sometimes, and more often, they died. Though he was far beyond them all, he sometimes admired the actions of the lesser creatures. He had underestimated Barry, for example. The man had more of a spine than Wesker had guessed. He had saved Jill, possibly at the expense of his family. Wesker respected that, and he had let Barry's family go free. Killing them would change nothing, and he hardly needed Barry's services anymore.

It was only once Wesker had ascended to the rank of a demigod, he noted with amusement, that he had shown the slightest interest in humanity. All his life he had shunned it, choosing business over morality. But now he was intrigued by it, if only as an outsider, watching the silly little routines of ants, trapped in their own tiny world, never seeing the bigger picture. It was only after his death that Albert Wesker had truly come to life.

Under Umbrella, Wesker had been just another human. He had played the game and taken risks… He would never forget waking up for the first time, feeling the weight of concrete and metal crushing him, clawing his way out of his own unmarked grave. All of it was because of STARS. Now he found himself back in Raccoon, trying to fix what Chris had shattered and stolen from him. Of course, he had gone after Chris straight away, but the coward had slipped away weeks ago.

Albert Wesker glanced around the tiny room that he was staying in. The motel was hardly worthy of his presence. The owner had been born a nobody, and he had died a nobody, which happened to have been at the exact moment when Wesker had crushed his windpipe. It would, after all, be unwise to leave any witnesses alive – one of the aces up his sleeve, and a major bargaining chip in negotiations with HCF, was that he knew Umbrella's facilities, and Umbrella would not be expecting his corpse to visit. This was what would make obtaining the G-virus so easy. Anyway, there were so many cases of mysterious disappearances recently that he would never be missed.

Wesker had been a close associate of Dr Birkin, the paranoid childish genius, and he had always had a certain fondness for the child prodigy. He smiled as he remembered the fair haired scientist who had continued to throw tantrums throughout his life, and yet had absolutely no knowledge of how the world of aggressive corporate powers worked. Only an unrivalled talent with bioengineering, which had been maintained via whatever means were necessary, including the assassination of his former mentor, James Marcus, had kept Birkin alive.

Birkin lived in his own little bubble, which contained only the G-virus, and, occasionally, his wife and child. Wesker would have been pressed to think of Birkin feeling 'love' for Annette. It had been a mutually beneficial arrangement between scientists. Annette had been, as far as Wesker could see, a manipulative little thing. Wesker faintly suspected that the child might not be Birkin's own. Not that Wesker had himself ever wasted time with such whimsical pursuits as courting. It was just such a waste of time. Love was weakness.

Wesker and Birkin had worked together for years, until Wesker quite simply couldn't keep up with his colleague intellectually, as the scientist had got involved in a fierce and petty rivalry with Alexia Ashford, right up until she had killed herself, at which point Birkin had performed a little celebratory dance. Birkin had also been the creator of the singular virus that had revived Wesker as a demigod.

The blonde haired man hadn't bothered to contact this Ada Wong character yet, and he wouldn't if he could help it. She would slow him down. A researcher had been kind enough to give Wesker her codes into Birkin's personal laboratory, shortly before Wesker had broken her pretty little neck.

It wouldn't be hard to sneak into the lab at night and check on the virus' progress. Now he just had to wait for the G-virus to be completed by Dr Birkin. Wesker smiled. He loved reunions.

* * *

Author's Note;

Oh my God! Oh my God! I've been reviewed by Shakahnna! I've been reviewed by THE Shakahnna. I'm so honoured! Thank you, wonderful person, you made my day by reviewing the first chapter! Don't worry, I like a nice passively psychotic Wesker too, but I just wanted him to be in a little hot water in the first chapter to make clear that not everything went his way post Arklay. As for Veronica, thank you! Sorry for dressing her EXACTLY like Alexia, but I felt that the Ashfords would have a strong sense of tradition. Unless I've missed it, nobody ever says anything about why Veronica was so bloody wonderful, so I wrote her in!

For any people from AW, yes, Deinos. Stop groaning. He's not Soaring's Deinos. He's just a similar looking chap, wearing similar clothes, with a similar penchant for using swords. Sorry, but it's impossible to write an original character who's not Deinos. He invaded this story, and I can't get him to leave.

Oh yes, for those who aren't familiar with it, Morpheus Duvall is canonical, and is one of the main characters in Dead Aim on PS2.

Anyway, thanks to any readers out there who reviewed chapter 1!

All the best, Jon Foulds


	3. Strength and Weakness

20th September, 1998, Raccoon City

Spencer staggered around his expansive office, shuffling back and forth with the aid of a walking stick. His grey and withered face was twisted into an even more repulsive scowl than usual, his feeble arms held rigidly at his side in pure rage. He hobbled to his desk, and with a rasping scream, desperate to destroy something, fumbled as he tried to seize a paperweight despite the arthritis in his fingers. At length, unable to vent his rage any other way, he tottered to his desk, slammed his fist onto the intercom and barked hoarsely at his secretary,

"Have somebody killed!"

As his knees trembled and threatened to give way, Spencer collapsed back into his luxurious armchair, which was almost comically large against his tiny shrunken frame. As was accustomed to more and more, he began to mutter to himself bitterly,

"Oh William… why couldn't you just be a good boy? After everything I've done for you! I gave you anything you wanted! The labs! That sample from the frogs! Everything! How dare you just ignore me!"

Spencer stopped, wheezing loudly as he tried to catch his breath. He just couldn't fathom how Birkin could be so ungrateful. Now, with this damned G-virus almost finished after so many years, it seemed that the boy had lost it completely.

Spencer heard the door open and glanced up, ready to arrange another execution if this was bad news. His eyes softened at once. His dry cracked lips contorted into a faint smile, though his face was still thoroughly unpleasant to look at. With Albert gone and Will acting up, the man before him was the only one he truly trusted,

"Agent Hunk. It's good to see you"

Spencer cast his bleary eyes over the agent's body. He wore full combat gear, even to events such as this. True, he wasn't the perfect choice for stealth missions, but Hunk had this habit of surviving no matter what. The downside was that he alone survived. Spencer had at fact once ordered a team of UBCS mercenaries to remove Hunk after he had returned without his comrades, though they had all been highly skilled themselves.

The mercenaries had died quite unpleasantly, so Spencer had been told. It was quite true, as Hunk was fond of reminding people, that the Death cannot die. The next day Hunk had reported to Spencer as if nothing had happened. The emotionless killer was truly fearless,

"It is good to see you too, Lord Spencer"

"I trust matters have been dealt with appropriately"

"There was only one BOW. Probably one of the infamous missing hikers"

"Good"

Spencer smiled. The attacks on civilians had continued, and they had been getting more numerous recently. Spencer had this habit of seeing any catastrophe, no matter what the human cost, as a positive thing one way or another. He always saw the silver lining. True the Arklay facility had been destroyed and Redfield's report had shown that the weapons in development were fallible against trained forces, but there was one wonderful revelation that came out of the matter.

Months after the lab had been destroyed, the attacks had continued. Even with the source of the virus removed, it had adapted and spread through the forests. The cross-species infection rate was quite startling. Of course, though it was nice to see that the virus was a success, it wouldn't pay to allow the creatures to keep wandering around. It was bad for public relations.

That was where Hunk fitted into Spencer's strategy. He hunted down and removed creatures that breached the city limits before they did too much damage. The steely faced agent gazed at Spencer, hiding his disgust at both the body and mind in front of him,

"We have a problem"

"What?"

"Morpheus Duvall"

"That frog! I thought I had him removed!"

"His disappearance would have aroused too much suspicion. He was fired, though it was made quite clear what would happen if he tried anything stupid"

"What's he done?"

"One of his representatives has contacted me, offering me a large sum of money to obtain the G-virus"

"I swear I'll… I'll…" Spencer again started to choke violently. Hunk looked on coldly, willing the old man to die, before continuing,

"The offer is insignificant. Of course, I won't respond. The interesting question is why he would risk exposing himself by contacting me. He wants that sample quickly. Why is he in such a rush? I have no doubt he had other spies in this organisation. Perhaps he knows something about Birkin that we don't"

"The boy stopped reporting in yesterday. His wife is unaccounted for as well"

"Perhaps it would be wise to take the sample from him"

"No. He can't escape with the virus. I say we let him finish it, and then… we ask him nicely to surrender the samples to us. I'll keep an eye on him. You are dismissed"

"Thank you, Lord Spencer"

Hunk stepped outside and walked to a window, breathing in the fresh air. Spencer's office smelt of dust and age and decay and death. The cleaners weren't allowed to go in anyway. Hunk stared out from the top of the office building. The attacks in the suburbs were getting more frequent and more brutal. Raccoon was falling apart, and now it seemed Umbrella was as well. He'd contact Morpheus immediately,

"And now both men want me to seize the G-virus. Soon the Death must pick his side…"

* * *

21st September, 1998, Raccoon City

Albert Wesker stood motionless on a pile of debris, staring at the concrete expanse before him in silent contemplation. Wesker had never understood the concept of attachment. Why on earth would any reasonable rational individual ever tie themselves to someone else? It made you a slave of your emotions.

That was why Wesker had been so surprised when Birkin decided to marry. Part of was that the very concept of it was so sickening cute. In the labs of Umbrella, surrounded by vicious creatures, murdering people every day for research, with the ultimate aim of creating an unstoppable pathogen, love had blossomed. Wesker had always just assumed that Birkin was above foolish sentiment. Apparently, he had been slightly mistaken.

Of course, Wesker was in an unusual position. Some people huddled up to each for protection or company, like mere animals, or because two heads were better than one. Wesker knew than any partner would just slow him down.

It wasn't just attachment that Wesker couldn't comprehend. As he had whiled away his days as an immortal, he had slowly grown numb to pity, guilt and compassion, allowing them to give way to bloodlust. Sure, he wasn't human anymore, but it wasn't just power he had gained. It was the strength of mind to us it. Gone was the weakness. Now there nothing but an obligation to the mission. He was the perfect human. He had rejected feeling, and embraced efficiency.

And yet today, he felt the slightest hint of sensation in his heart, like a single candle in a darkened hall. He couldn't remember what it was now. That had been a lifetime ago. He had been reborn. Still, there was something in his heart as he stared at the rotting corpse, dried gore staining the floor around it, its huge claw reached out, as if its dying breath had been spent in an effort to kill.

Wesker's eyes focused on the fallen Tyrant. Even after months of decay, it was still a fearsome sight. It was still magnificent. He knew who had done this to such a magnificent creature.

Rebecca Chambers.

True, she wasn't exactly high up on his list of priorities, but he would certainly, given the chance, tear off her arms. Wesker smiled at the thought. There was an art to killing. It should be savoured like fine wine. The smell of blood, the sound of screaming, and the final look of terror in their eyes. That was when Wesker knew he was alive. At least compared to his victims.

He wasn't a monster. He was the only real human. Jill and Chris, they were so occupied with pitiful little concepts like good and justice that they had forgotten the most important rule of all; the strongest will survive. Over a million people died for the entertainment of the Roman Empire. Public executions were considered a light distraction, suitable to watch over a picnic lunch. No, he wasn't a monster. He had embraced the cruel vicious killer at dwells in every man, woman and child. He had remembered what it was that made humans dominant on this planet.

Wesker leapt from his perch and landed with catlike grace. It was time to glance in at Birkin again. Wesker looked back at the Tyrant.

July 23rd, 1998

That was when Rebecca had done this. The day before…

Wesker smiled again, forcing his mind onto something else as he set off at a sprint through the complex. Birkin was a genius in many respects, but he was almost certainly the worst housekeeper in history, considered Wesker as he sprinted through the burnt out and partially collapsed areas of Birkin's lab. Another of Rebecca's crime. She had been responsible for the destruction of a large part of the lab. Then again, she had also removed that meddlesome Marcus, so it partially balanced out.

Nonetheless, it was noteworthy that in two months, Birkin had not bothered to send in a single cleanup squad. Wesker slipped into the shadows as he approached Birkin's lab. He glared out, hearing every soft footstep, instantly aware of every individual with his superior senses. A pair of rats scuttled past his feet. The main power had failed two days ago, and the labs were faintly illuminated by the dim glow from the backup generator.

Wesker heard footsteps nearby. One woman, running fast. Her breathing was laboured. He knew at once what was happening, and stayed still. Let the rat run into the trap, he decided. Birkin had locked down the lab completely yesterday, sealing in everyone. The scientists had reacted as expected. While they had no qualms with experimenting on others, they ran and screamed and panicked at the first opportunity when they themselves were at any risk whatsoever. Now another was making a break for freedom.

She ran around a corner into view and passed Wesker's dark alcove without stopping. With a quiet yet satisfied cry, Birkin lunged from the shadows, a syringe held overhand, like a dagger. The woman screamed for just a second before the syringe was plunged deeply into her neck, injecting a ludicrously large dose.

Wesker raised his eyebrows a fraction. Birkin had certainly changed. His sandy hair was tangled, and his lab coat was covered with streaks of blood. He crouched over his victim as she chocked and squirmed on the ground, smiling insanely over her body. He laughed to himself, the laugh of an innocent child, clapping repeatedly,

"Look how well you did! Already dead! Already… You… Please… Please… No mutation… It's ok, we'll do it next time…"

He left the body where it had fallen and scampered back to his lab. Wesker glanced at the woman. Instant death was a nice result, but Birkin really wanted his precious G-type. Not that Wesker was sure what Birkin had planned to do if the woman had mutated. Birkin wasn't thinking anymore. His mind was consumed by the virus. The fact that he had been working for the past forty hours probably didn't help matters.

Wesker smiled. He had always known that it wasn't Birkin's relationship with Annette that would cause problems, but his relationship to his work. Still, Birkin was close now. His hope of a successful mutation meant that he was very close.

Soon the G-virus would be ready.


End file.
